Accomplice
by ZephyrLemon
Summary: NEWLY UPLOADED N' FIXED (i hope) Can't figure how Cypher got into the Matrix w/out anyone knowing. There had to be a partner in crime. A reflective piece about how things panned out from Cypher's POV.


1 A/N: This short little piece was born when I was discussing w/my friend how Cypher could've gotten into the Matrix w/out anyone knowing it to have that little meeting with Agent Smith. We decided that he would have to have a partner in crime. There was only one likely suspect. This is just one possible scenario, and it doesn't change the fact that this suspect is kick- ass cool. I don't need to name her because it's not to hard to figure out who I'm talking about. If you don't know, figure it out or ask. This may seem a little OOC for Cypher, but it's a reflection so it's not like he actually put these thoughts into words and realized the implications of them. They are just thoughts and his motivations. Also, we don't really know how deep he really is b/c we never get a very in depth look at him in the movie. All we get of him is his evil intentions, but maybe they weren't always evil and maybe not all of them were evil.  
  
2 Oh, and I 3 reviews to the max =)  
  
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4 Disclaimer: You know that I own none of this because if I did you would be seeing my ideas up on the big screen. Guess you're not so there's my proof that I own squat. =(  
  
5  
  
6 Accomplice  
  
3/30/02  
  
  
  
"It means buckle your seatbelt Dorothy 'cause Kansas is goin' bye-bye," my retort is smug with self-satisfaction.  
  
She is the only one who smirks. She glances my way and I catch her eye.  
  
There is something about her. It attracts me because I am a man. Because of the testosterone pumping through my veins.  
  
It is not like it is with Trinity.  
  
My attraction is not intellectual. I wouldn't even go so far as to say that it's emotional. There is something raw about her. She is lithe and strong. Her attitude is course but everything else about her is smooth and seamless.  
  
She is pale in the light and deep in the dark.  
  
She belongs here. This is her life, being a rebel. Fighting for this cause that I can't even bring myself to remember. There is no question she belongs here but I do not.  
  
We talk sometimes, late at night after everyone else has retired. She does not treat me as an undesired pig. We have a rapport that seems to flow naturally from our similar pasts in the Matrix into our adjacent bunks on the same rebel ship. Her voice is low, hushed and sometimes strained, but never demeaning or assuming. Neither of us feels the need to uphold our masks. Not when it's just the two of us. Not when we can relate and be open.  
  
It's ironic how much the Real World makes you close up. I never was one to bare it all or wear my heart on my sleeve. Real men don't talk about their emotions and cry over them. But somehow life on this ship has shut me down even more. I have to crack jokes and make snide comments to push my real feelings even deeper down in the dark recesses of my being. It isn't even a question of wanting to face them. There is no choice now. If you face them, own up to your feelings, it doesn't matter. There's nothing you can do about them anyway.  
  
Emptiness.  
  
It's no longer an alternative to being something. It's a way of life.  
  
Don't even question it. Don't even pretend you can transcend the bleak blankness of your soul when there is nothing left to hold onto. Despite any unhealthy amounts of optimism, it's simply not feasible.  
  
I don't know why they bother anymore. Why does anyone at all? Why do they bother?  
  
I am past caring.  
  
For the time, I'm stuck here on this dank and cold hunk of metal careening around in these useless sewers beneath abandoned cities. It doesn't surprise me, this widespread abandonment. Why would anyone want to stay?  
  
There is no point.  
  
As long as I'm here, though, I need some human solace to ward off insanity. So I talk with her. Sometimes she allows me to touch her hand and trace the worn lines of her knuckles with my fingertip or perhaps my lips.  
  
Many years ago I mistakenly tried to push her. In spite of her own loneliness, she will not be pushed.  
  
Now we just sit, touching maybe, but that is enough. To know that the other is there on sleepless nights. To feel the soft whisper of warm breath amidst the steely frigid air. These things make it slightly more bearable.  
  
I told her I wanted to get out. She didn't think it was possible. She couldn't understand why I saw no fulfillment.  
  
She had felt the knife of emptiness edge into the corners of her heart and mind sometimes.  
  
Only sometimes.  
  
I felt it always. Nothing allayed the shadow cast over my hope. Not a spark ignited the flame of ambition that has long since burned out. I have no conviction left in me to aid in this moot war effort. Though I knew it once, way back when, the purpose of our constant vigilance and fighting eludes me now.  
  
The emptiness started to wane eventually. It was initially replaced by something I couldn't identify. It confused me. I tried to verbalize it to her, but the words would not come.  
  
She just looked at me with those intense eyes. I know why her eyes hold such pain. That is my pain, reflected in her eyes. Without a smile or a gesture, she just looks at me. It is as though she's searching for something in me. As though by looking in my eyes she could see right through to my soul.  
  
Maybe she can.  
  
If I were she, I would be afraid of what I might see there.  
  
Maybe she's looking for hope. If that is so, I am not the place where it is found.  
  
Found in me is something, though.  
  
It is strange to feel anything at all. I had grown accustomed to the nothingness. It was no friend, but feelings are confusing and they toy with your logic. I don't like anything that is not straightforward and clear cut. I do not bother with unnecessary complications. My mind seems to choose otherwise. In spite of what I like or dislike, there is something there. As time passes, I come to identify it.  
  
It is anger.  
  
It is a deep, aggressive hostility.  
  
Hate is not an appropriate description for what I felt. Hate is just an idea. Malice is an action. Malevolence does not stand by the wayside. Anger breeds these emotions that have no choice but to take action. That is their function.  
  
For a time, my insides were tumultuous. There was inner turmoil as an army of marauding, evil emotions and ideas invaded the barren space within me. Finding neither protests nor objections, these angry thoughts took up residence in my mind. When there was only a lonely emptiness within me, I was not anything. This new set of feelings made me angry. I became a bitter person. Spiteful, even.  
  
It did not take long for her to realize that I was serious about getting out. She still thought it was just a fanciful, impossible notion. That did not stop me from entertaining it. Nor did it stop me from drawing her into my plans. She understood my plight better than anyone else did. She was probably the only one who cared anyway. Morpheus pretended to, but his head was too far up his ass in what he called "reality" that he couldn't see how much he was immersed in this useless war. He was on a conquest to nowhere. I, on the other hand, was not on a conquest and yet I was stuck getting nowhere.  
  
That was the reason I needed to get out. If I was going to be hypothetically "getting nowhere" I could do it in the Matrix so I could at least enjoy myself in the process.  
  
Ignorance is bliss.  
  
That was what I told that Agent Smith guy with the very large stick up his ass. Stick or no stick, though, he was going to get me out of this hellhole. A few lives were a fair price to pay in my opinion. Although they wouldn't know it at the time, I would actually be doing them a favor by releasing them from this vicious cycle of useless living.  
  
It had taken a while to reach that agreement.  
  
At first, the machines were wary about a human rebel contacting them. They assumed it was a trap. It may well have been because I could have fucked them over pretty badly if I had wanted to. Screwing over the Agents would have helped the resistance effort. That was something that would have cost me too much to risk doing. Instead, I continued to build up the machine's trust in me. Well, I'm sure they can't "technically" have a feeling of trust, but fuck technicalities. That's only something Morpheus is worried about.  
  
Fuck Morpheus.  
  
After some time I started having secret meetings with the Agents within the Matrix. They had to secure the entrances and scan my RSI for glitches or viruses like hell, but I was making some progress. These always happened on the nights that she was on night-duty. She was my one and only confidant. She was the only one who could be trusted. On the nights that I wasn't going in for an Agent rendezvous I would just stay up and talk with her so that suspicions wouldn't rise among the other crewmembers. It wasn't as though anyone really cared so much as they had this disgusting need to know everything that occurred with everyone else. If any of them had found out that she was aiding my rebellion against the resistance itself, we would both be in deep shit.  
  
But she never let anything slip.  
  
I wanted to thank her for that. I never did, though. Perhaps she knew. If she didn't, the closest I could get was to relieve her of her meaningless life.  
  
She knew it was coming. She's known it was coming since the day she was born. Maybe not like it happened. No, not like this, not like this. But it was coming anyway.  
  
You're only born so you can die.  
  
I recall the chorus of some half-ass song from my Matrix days playing in my mind. It makes me sick and makes me smile at the same time. That is why I had to do it.  
  
Maybe I can't make you understand. Not the way she understood. It doesn't matter. None of it does. Don't you realize that? She had to be in the first ones to go. Otherwise she'd have a chance to tell. It had to be that way. She understood, but she would start to lose that as soon as she realized how fucked up her life was. As soon as she watched all of her illusions fall apart. As soon as she saw the reality: that the Real World is just another illusion, created by those who see what they want to see.  
  
That's all that we do anyway.  
  
We see what we want to see.  
  
Perception. It's a fucked up thing.  
  
That's the way it had to be, though. Because she understood. Only for a time. But understanding isn't real. It's another illusion of our perception. Nothing lasts. Least of all perceptions.  
  
That's the way it had to be.  
  
Don't hate me, I'm just the messenger.  
  
That's just the way it had to be. 


End file.
